


Waking beside you

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, sap. total sap.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The first time he allows himself to fall asleep beside the other man sets off an irreversible chain of events





	Waking beside you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [醒来有你（Waking beside you）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549956) by [jimo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimo/pseuds/jimo)



Even before Jim Moriarty opened his eyes, he realized he was in an unfamiliar room. He exhaled evenly, masking the fact that he’d woken, and did a physical check on himself. Sore—in a way that suggested he at least had fun last night—but also with a hangover—which suggested he wouldn’t be able to remember that fun until after lunch, perhaps.

 

“This can’t happen again,” came the voice beside him.

 

A familiar weight. Jim opened one eye to a familiar shoulder. With familiar teeth marks. His lips curled into a reflexive smile. Oh, ew—he’d been drooling.

 

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Iceman,” Jim grumbled in reply. Voice was raspy. He wanted water. He forced his other eye open as well and rubbed his face, taking in the scene before him.

 

Mycroft Holmes looked worse for wear: dehydrated, hair a right mess, a bit scruffy, a bit bruised—and most importantly, a bit disoriented.  Jim figured he probably didn’t look much better.

 

It wasn’t the first time they’d slept together, but it was the first time they’d _slept_ together. And by the looks of it both of them had been dead drunk.

 

With some effort, Jim peeled himself off of the sheets. Ew, sticky too. He wanted a shower. By the looks of it, his clothes—a suit—was rumpled on the ground but otherwise clean. They appeared to be in a hotel suite, top floor.

 

He raised an eyebrow at Holmes, who had sat up with what also looked like some effort.

 

“Did you get the diamond?” Jim asked through a yawn. He surmised that’s what Holmes had been here for; Jim had set in motion a plan to help some Bulgarian jewel thieves make their way into the embassy party held in the same hotel last night. Some princess with some sparkly necklace.  Of course, once they’d lifted the ice, Holmes’s men had been en route to steal them back. He answered to the royal family, after all.

 

Of course, then the two of them had bumped into each other by the elevators. By then, Jim had had several other notorious jewels cleverly replaced, and didn’t quite care what happened to the thieves after that. Holmes by then had the princess under protection and the thieves in custody, and didn’t quite care that a valuable emerald had been replaced right off of an Austrian noble. It could come in handy as leverage for an agreement they’d yet to sign next month, in any case.

 

The drinking, though, the drinking was unusual. And by the looks of things didn’t happen until they’d gotten into the hotel room.

 

Just as Jim was about to repeat his question, Holmes answered with one slow nod. Still a bit out of it then.

 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Jim rasped. Another nod. He didn’t bother to invite the taller man; that they’d stayed together all night had already made things too...intimate, as it were.

 

By the time he’d gotten his fill of hot water and stepped out the obscenely large bathroom, Holmes was gone.

 

∞

 

The second time it happened was shortly after the interrogation.

 

It was all Mycroft could do not to bite out the words “I’m not going to apologize,” as they rocked together on the plush chair.

 

Moriarty had played up his wounded, innocent facade when he came to see him. Then they’d traded barbs on who pulled one over who with the capture and exchange of information, and the criminal consultant had taunted him about his brother.

 

He had a sort of sick obsession with Sherlock, and implied to be curious as to whether Mycroft did too. Mycroft could tell how disappointed Moriarty was with his response.

 

He did feel horribly guilty, but not for that. He felt guilty for sharing his brother’s story; perhaps it wasn’t his to share. He felt guilty for how long he had Moriarty detained for, before he went to see him. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew that he was being manipulated by Moriarty to feel sorry for it.

 

It was still working.

 

So much so that after they finished, instead of sending him on his way as he so often did, he combed his fingers through Moriarty’s hair. He whispered sweet nothings in his ear as he panted, catching his breath. He rubbed circles over the small of Moriarty’s back, and held him until he dozed off.

 

It wasn’t long before Mycroft followed, knowing that he was in a secure room.

 

Four hours later, he woke to a haunting rhythm being hummed from about chest level.

 

He looked down to see a pair of brown eyes staring back.

 

“Is this becoming a thing?” Moriarty asked, tone just shy of mocking.

 

Mycroft looked over at the clock on the wall. It was barely morning.

 

“This won’t happen again,” he replied simply.

 

Moriarty shrugged, detaching himself from Mycroft and getting up. He stopped himself from shivering at the cold that came with the loss of contact as he did.

 

∞

 

He regreted saying that, after the Sherrinford visit occurred.

 

Moriarty dawdled, after speaking to Eurus, but didn’t make any attempt to stay longer than absolutely necessary.

 

∞

 

The next time it happened wasn’t for a long time until after that.

 

Jim woke to find Holmes staring at him curiously for a long moment.

 

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he finally said.

 

“Good morning to you too,” Jim replied with a cheeky grin. “There’s lots I’m not telling you.”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Holmes said.

 

“Too bad, because that’s all you’re getting,” Jim said, humming a bit. He pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed a kiss to Holmes’s lips, missing when as he turned his face and so getting the corner of his mouth instead.

 

“So cold.” He pouted for show, not at all put out because he’s got all the memories of Holmes coming apart beneath his fingers, his mouth, from last night. Those were his to keep, no matter what happened after—after everything.

 

There wasn’t much the Iceman liked to let him keep, so he had to make sure he took what really counted.

 

∞

 

The fourth time it happened, Mycroft wasn’t sure whether to be angry at himself, or at Moriarty.

 

The man was still asleep when the sun peeked through the crack between Mycroft’s curtains. They’re in his room this time, his actual bedroom, and he knew he should have felt ashamed, but couldn’t quite muster it, not with the steady breaths above his chest, slowly syncing with his own heartbeat.

 

He’d gotten an arm wrapped around Moriarty. Jim. He doesn’t know what to think of him as anymore. A nuisance to the safety of the free world. A guilty pleasure. A fixture in his life.

 

The man who threatened his brother’s life so overtly.

 

He’d called, after that incident. Threatened to come after him with the entire might of the British Empire at his disposal. Yelled after being callously told not to take everything so seriously.

 

It didn’t stop him from meeting Moriarty where he wanted when he asked.

 

∞

 

They came to an understanding after the incident.

 

Sherlock and Moriarty were mutually destructive forces, but as long as Mycroft could convince them to keep a reasonable difference, it all operated like a happy, productive partnership—in the grand scheme of things.

 

At least, that’s what Mycroft told himself the fifth time it happened. He was very much a big picture sort of person.

 

∞

 

The fifth time it happened, Jim couldn’t help but feel like something had changed. Deeply.

 

When the two were still just on and off rivals, climbing their way up the ranks—one on the side of the law, and the other against it—they’d never done this.

 

Occasionally in beds, but even that had been rare. They met in places no one would expect them to; seedy bars and frat parties and even the back room of a theater once, on a slam poetry open mic night. It was fun then because it was dangerous, or so they said without using so many words. It was clear from the beginning that in those moments they were on neutral ground. Even though they never discussed why.

 

But then Jim had gone and made it personal. His plan was in motion now, and he couldn’t not harm Sherlock. When it came down to it, one of them would be going down.

 

He’d gone too far, and he had no intention of turning back.

 

They never talked about it, when they were together like this, but there had always been a little tension once Jim showed himself to the Iceman’s precious brother.

 

But recently—recently, it was like Mycroft—Holmes—Mycroft, now, since there were two of them—it was like he’d gotten...complacent.

 

Like he thought his games with his little brother would stay games; that neither of them would come to serious harm, bystanders be damned.

 

Didn’t he understand it would all come to a head? That it had to end?

 

He pushed himself up angrily off the bed.

 

“Jim?”

 

Angry that Mycroft had woken up so casually, no longer worried about his reputation or his _safety_ or his—his _heart._ Angry he thought it was alright, that he no longer had to tell him “this couldn’t happen again.”

 

They’d all forgotten he had teeth, and they would pay, he thought, slamming the door behind him.

 

∞

 

The sixth time came after a night of apologies, whispered into his skin, traced into it with every touch.

 

“What I feel for Sherlock isn’t the same as what I have with you,” Jim said. They’d been lying there for hours, sleep elusive, and dawn was minutes from breaking.

 

Mycroft wasn’t sure how to respond.

 

Hell, he wasn’t really sure what Jim was trying to say.

 

“Yes, we’ve always been quite different like that,” he ended up responding in noncommittal tone. With anyone else he might try for a “oh, it’s not me, it’s you?” joke. But, really, there was no one else.

 

“At first,” Jim breathed out—“At first, I think….I was looking for proof I wasn’t alone.”

 

Jim didn’t seem like he was looking for a response, so Mycroft didn’t give one.

 

“I still need to see how it plays out,” he said, long after Mycroft thought he’d already trailed off. “It’s like I’m dreaming, and I can’t convince myself it’s real.”

 

At that, Mycroft shifted, rolling over to look down at Jim, face to face.

 

“You’re real,” Mycroft said, voice low. Jim’s breath quickened, pupils dilated, then he stilled himself, only his eyes still searching.

 

“But are you?”

 

Mycroft didn’t know how to answer that. These odd conversations they had between late nights and early mornings never took place anywhere else, anytime else.

 

So he just kissed him.

 

∞

 

The seventh time, Jim woke to Mycroft reading by lamplight on the bed beside where he was sprawled on his stomach.

 

“Fairy tales?” Mycroft asked, lifting the limited edition Grimm’s in his hand just a fraction.

 

“They say a lot about our collective hopes and dreams,” Jim mumbled nonsensically.

 

Mycroft snorted. “Do you have a favorite?”

 

Jim rolled over and rubbed at his face. “The ones with the monsters living in the forest, I suppose. Those are the most relatable.”

 

“What, because children and princesses are sent in to face them?”

 

“They make things happen. They’re the most exciting.”

 

∞

 

The eight time, Mycroft woke up with Jim snuggled up behind him, and knew something was about to change.

 

“I need to go away for a while,” Jim said in a soft voice, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.

 

They’d never talked about things like this before. They’d never brought up the “next time” or even the possibility this would happen again. They barely acknowledge this is happening at all. That they’re sharing a bed, or spending the night. Sometimes in Mycroft’s own home.

 

And now every time they’ve been intimate, it’s been like this. He didn’t answer. Jim did this, say things to himself. He wanted Mycroft to hear it, sure, but he never expected a response.

 

“Would you believe me if I told you I had been terribly lonely that night?” Mycroft said softly, unable to stop himself.

 

Jim snorted. “Someone as popular as you? Lonely?”

 

“No need to be mean about it.” He knew he was  teasing.

 

A lazy smile. “I’m just pleased to be able to monopolize your time.” Then Jim shifted, to get a better look at Mycroft’s face. “You mean that night at the hotel?”

 

“I think that’s why we were so drunk.”

 

Jim wiggled his eyebrows comically at that. “To get me to stay? You old romantic, you.”

 

Something in Mycroft’s chest clenches. His trepidation must not be as well hidden as he hoped, because Jim’s expression softens too.

 

∞

 

After that, Mycroft knew it would never happen again. The contingency plans he had put together with Sherlock came to be necessary after all, and his brother reported, much to his surprise, that “Moriarty was dead.”

 

Shot on the rooftop, by his own hand. Gun in his mouth. His final words those of a tired madman.

 

True to his moniker, Mycroft let nothing show. Not after the examination reports came back confirming his death.

 

It was a slow realization, if Mycroft was perfectly honest. Immediately after the “Fall,” he had thrown himself into work. Sherlock needed his help, and he was more than glad to give it. He was rarely home. He rarely slept more than two hours at a time.

 

Then weeks became months...became a year, and the numbness gave way to something much more terrifying: the realization that he wasn’t coming back.

 

He now had to pretend to mourn one man, but he couldn’t allow himself to mourn the other.

 

He wouldn’t let himself investigate Moriarty’s death. Either Moriarty really had had enough at the end and it was real, or it wasn’t—and give his history it was entirely possible—and he didn’t think it was worth mentioning to Mycroft.

 

After all, what were they to each other?

 

They weren’t even friends, much less anything else.

 

Helping his brother dismantle Moriarty’s network, from time to time, was another reminder of that. They’d never spoken to each other about their work, and while neither of them expected the other to, that was the type of thing people did, wasn’t it?

 

If he was being honest with himself, it didn’t feel as alien as it should, unraveling Moriarty’s old network. Though they never talked about themselves, it didn’t feel intrusive to be now doing this. Work was work. It wasn’t personal.

 

And then—then his brother came back. A reminder of what was really important.

 

And slowly, he was able to convince himself that what they had didn’t matter. Difficult weeks turned into easier months, and then a year had gone by.

 

“Mr. Holmes, a package for you, sir.”

 

Mycroft looked up to see a feeble looking courier at his door and frowned, immediately suspicious that he’d gotten so far into the building. He was indeed a courier, but it couldn’t have been official business. He glanced at the large envelope in his hand, before he ordered the boy to set it down. Then he made a call; they had teams to investigate unmarked packages, and it wasn’t something he personally bothered with.

 

Two days later, Anthea dropped a children’s book on his desk.

 

“What is this?”

 

“The so-called suspicious package,” she replied curtly. “You sure you didn’t order it and forget? For the doctor’s baby, perhaps?”

 

Mycroft frowned. “That must be it,” he lied, looking down at the book. “Thank you.”

 

She nodded and walked off, leaving him alone with Jim’s fairy tale book.

 

He opened it, willing his fingers not to tremble, and looked for clues as he flipped the pages.

 

There were none. There didn’t need to be. The book itself sent a message.

 

He let out a shaky breath, and dropped his hand, letting the book fall open naturally to land on the last page of one of the stories. One Jim had particularly liked, apparently, with a monster in a forest.

 

He stared at it for a minute, wondering where it all went wrong, and whether he would do it differently if he had the chance to go back.

 

Then the pieces started putting themselves together so quickly he wondered why he hadn’t seen it earlier—why he didn’t let himself see it earlier.

 

∞

 

Mycroft thanked his driver, stepping out toward a cabin along the Poland-Belarus border.

 

He half expected to find Moriarty waiting inside it for him, ready with a tell-all explanation that would answer all his questions and put his mind at ease.

 

Instead, he found the cabin empty. But it was clearly recently inhabited. So he slowly stepped through the structure, leafing through what papers were lying around, rifling around a bit in the cabinets to kill time, before taking a seat in what seemed to be the kitchen-dining area.

 

He must have dropped off, because the next thing he knew, the front door was being abruptly opened, and he was staring straight at Jim Moriarty again.

 

At least he had the decency to look abashed (or was that an act, too?) and ducked his head a bit, trying for a joke.

 

“You could have called ahead,” he said softly.

 

“You could have given me a reason to call,” Mycroft responded.

 

Their first encounter—strictly business—had been along the border between Poland and Belarus. The world's biggest forest. Not quite exactly the same spot, and not in a cabin registered under a name so laughably fake if you knew what to look for, but close enough. Illegal arms being smuggled from one side to the other, en route to the United Kingdom. Mycroft had been a mere analyst then. Jim must have just started getting his footing on an international scale. Crime had always been less concerned with borders than the law, though.

 

Jim approached slowly, as if not sure if he had the right to, and eventually stopped before Mycroft.

 

“Are you here to…?”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “To arrest you? Bring you in? Just to say hello—or—goodbye?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said, with more emotion than Jim had ever heard from him. “You disappear without any hint you want to continue contact, and then, what, four years later? You send me a _book of fairy tales._ ”

 

“I—I did say I’d have to be away for a while.”

 

Mycroft looked at him, expression incredulous. Jim gave him a one-shouldered shrug.

 

“You seemed to have things under control. And I wanted to take care of some personal things."

 

“You two really are remarkably similar, when it comes to your shortcomings,” Mycroft commented, aghast.

 

That made Jim scowl.

 

“Stop comparing me to him. I don’t want you because of him,” Jim continued. “And I—I can exist on my own.”

 

He took a seat; he didn’t look like he wanted to elaborate, but Mycroft expected he understood now.

 

“But you don’t need to,” Mycroft responded softly.

 

“I’m sorry, alright?” Jim snapped. Mycroft’s taken aback. Jim scowled, before his expression turned remorseful, then pained again. Then he brought his hand up and raked it through his hair, messing it up. “I thought I was ready—I thought I could do this but clearly seeing you in person again is _not_ the same thing as—”

 

“Jim,” Mycroft said firmly, clasping his hand; slowly but firmly stopping Jim from pulling at his hair.

 

“While I don’t disagree we have a lot to talk about, we don’t have to cover everything in one 15-minute conversation,” he continued, before drawing Jim’s hand closer to him, running his thumb across the knuckles. He missed this. He missed being able to reach out and touch. Knowing Jim was real.

 

“If we’re being honest with ourselves, we’ve years of talking to make up for,” Mycroft said. Jim stayed silent, breathing evening out. Mycroft pressed a light kiss to the back of Jim’s hand. “We can take our time.”

 

“Alright?” he asked, when Jim made no move to respond—to any of it. He was sure, with their hands so close, that Jim could tell his pulse was racing too.

 

And then when Jim nodded, he finally let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

∞

 

The next time it happened was the next morning.

 

True to his promise, they hadn’t yet brought up any difficult topics, and thus the trip had been silent for long stretches at a time. Jim had revealed bits a pieces of what he had been up to. Mycroft hadn’t offered much by way of what he experienced in the aftermath of the dual faked deaths, and Jim didn’t press.

 

It had already gotten dark, so the two of them went to bed and fell asleep after several hours of quietly laying in the dark.

 

Mycroft wasn’t sure who woke first, but morning greetings were relatively subdued. Then, as he was putting away the dishes after breakfast, Jim came up behind him to wrap his arms around his waist.

 

“I missed you, you know,” he said into his back. “I really did. Even—even before. I would find myself missing you when we were apart.”

 

“I’m not sure if I want to go back to London, it was never my home the way it was your’s, but I want to be where you are,” he finished in a rush, squeezing.

 

Mycroft set the dishes down, and dried his hands, before covering Jim’s hands with his.

 

“I’d like that.”


End file.
